Her shop window always made him smile. There stood mannequins who looked glad to be alive—though, in point of fact, they were not alive—clad in cheerful fashions that evoked not only feminine desirability but also, and more importantly, feminine euphoria. They looked like happy young women who always enjoyed themselves, who laughed frequently and experienced top-notch orgasms on a regular basis.

No sooner had we scrambled out of the car into the beautiful, first-day-of-vacation outdoors, than she was unzipping her denim shorts. Even though Gretchen in her bathing suit was to be a public sight, her undressing felt private. I instinctively looked away for a few seconds—long enough to allow for the transition.

When he had invited her over for, as he put it, “an evening of fondue and sex,” she hadn’t realized the two were to be enjoyed concurrently. But as soon as he’d set the fondue things out, he’d invited her to remove her tights and panties. And when he chose a position on the floor rather than occupying the seat across the table from her, she’d begun to get the idea.

Over the next few days, my sense of smell finally seduced my other senses. Now I could not look at Mindy without admiring the subtle grace of her features; I could not listen to her talk without feeling tremors. How, I marveled, could I ever have found her looks to be bland and her voice to be ordinary? I began to see my previous unresponsiveness to her physical charms as a reflection on my own shortcomings.

So, being observant, I became familiar with the wardrobes, routines, and body language of the three gorgeous women who worked at the agency—and even with some elements of their personalities. If you think you can’t learn anything about someone’s personality by watching her through a window, then you’re not watching right. You can’t tell me that the particular way the sunny little blonde’s mouth curled up when she was on the phone wasn’t studied flirting. Or that the manner in which the willowy redhead’s eyes constantly drifted toward a stuffed hedgehog on her desk didn’t reveal a sentimental heart.

She continued. “I think the difference between how I feel about sexy women and how I feel about sexy men is sort of like the difference between how I feel about painting versus sculpture. Paintings are my whole world. I eat, drink, and breathe them, I’m thinking about them all the time, and I practically live in the landscape gallery of the museum at school. If I could, I’d crawl into a painting at night instead of a bed. Whereas sculpture—hey, I like fine sculpture. Nice stuff, keep up the good work. But I wouldn’t put one in my house or anything.”

I never did learn exactly why Millicent showed up at my place with no pants on at 1:30 in the morning. I had a general idea, of course, of the type of evening out that might have resulted in this scenario. But I still don’t know any of the specific details.

While the car ascended with a soothing whir, Becky broke the silence. “I don’t know if this was strictly necessary, according to the open-bottle rules. But I am going on break ... and I can do whatever I like on my break.” She stepped closer to me. “Whatever I like,” she repeated. And she reached forward and tapped my chest, ever so briefly.